The car leaves you at the front gate not long after sunrise, with Taipei already settling into the warm, humid stillness of morning. Moisture hangs in the air, catching against the leaves of the trees that line the stone walls around the property. Beyond the gate, the Chou residence is almost startling in how little it resembles what you had imagined. For a family worth billions, you expected something grander—some sprawling villa, private business resort, or glass-walled penthouse high above the city. Instead, the home beyond the trees is large and unmistakably expensive, but quiet about it: pale stone, dark wood, wide windows, tiled roofs, and gardens softened by years of careful upkeep. It looks less like the headquarters of a dynasty and more like somewhere people actually grew up.

You know something about dynasties yourself. As the only child and eventual heir to your own family's vast commercial empire, meetings with wealthy families are hardly unusual, and neither are conversations disguised beneath layers of courtesy. Your parents had presented this trip simply enough: the Chou Group represented an enormous opportunity, and spending several weeks in Taipei would allow both families to discuss a potentially lucrative partnership without rushing negotiations. Staying with the Chous themselves, they said, would only make things easier. More personal. More comfortable.

There had been other comments, though. Small ones at first, slipped between discussions of market access and mutual investments. Chairman Chou had left behind three daughters, your parents reminded you. Yuna was brilliant, apparently, and already carrying much of the company on her shoulders. Mina had finally returned to Taiwan after years abroad. An was sweet, thoughtful, and recently finished with university. All three were beautiful. All three were unmarried. Somehow, their relationship statuses had come up often enough to be memorable despite supposedly having nothing to do with the business proposal. Standing outside their family home with your luggage beside you, the pattern becomes considerably harder to dismiss.

There are no executives waiting at the door. No assistant holding an itinerary. No conference room booked for the morning, or even any firm promise of when these supposedly important negotiations will begin. What you have instead is a guest bedroom prepared inside the Chou family residence and an invitation to live under the same roof as three eligible daughters for the next several weeks. Whatever professional discussions may eventually happen, the possibility that your parents—and perhaps the Chous as well—have quietly engineered something far more domestic around them now hangs rather plainly in the humid morning air.

Movement near the front door interrupts the thought. A petite figure cautiously leans around its edge, medium-length black hair falling in loose waves around a pair of large round glasses. An Chou recognizes you almost immediately, her initial hesitation giving way to a small, bright smile. "You’re here already. Good morning." She opens the door farther and gestures inside. "Come in, please. We prepared your room, so you can unpack first."

Apparently, the Daughters of Taipei were expecting you.